Shadows Hold Their Breath
by betweenthetwo
Summary: The unthinkable has happened, and Voldemort has won. Hermione Granger is a “Privilege” for low level Death Eaters… can someone she believed a traitor free her from this existence? SSHG, post HBP


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Shadows Hold Their Breath

Rating: T

Summary: The unthinkable has happened, and Voldemort has won. Hermione Granger is a "Privilege" for low level Death Eaters… can someone she believed a traitor free her from this existence?

Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot. The title is from Emily Dickinson's "There is a certain slant of light."

Author's Notes: As usual, this wrote itself. I really have no control! If anyone can spot the tiny Yeats reference, its virtual Snape for you!

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She can feel his eyes on her back. Like a shadow he has followed her for fifteen days now. The guards have seen him, but they are too confused by his actions to question him. There is no reason why he should be here. There is no reason why he should be watching her.

She pretends she hasn't seen him. She does not dare glance in his direction for fear that her heart would explode. She feels his presence, she hears distantly, the low baritones of his voice. She does not know why he is here- again- but she knows that his presence has given her hope.

She has not told Hannah that she has seen him. She would not know how to explain her certainty, her epiphany. For months now she has cursed him, she has likened him to the Dark Lord himself. She has deemed him beyond redemption, labelled him a murderer, a monster. A traitor.

But would a traitor come here, and do nothing more than watch? This is a house of disrepute, this is a brothel frequented only by low level Death Eaters with more money than class. In the past she might have been called a cheap whore. Now she is referred to as a "Privilege." She knows she should consider herself lucky. Ginny Weasley was raped and murdered by Voldemort himself- if the rumours are true. There is no clear fact to be discerned, only whispered secrets in the kitchens, gossip in the halls. Her world has been condensed to this house, these rooms, these beds and these men, and she wonders if death would be preferable. Harry is dead, Ron is dead, Professor Dumbledore is dead, Hagrid is dead. These are facts. These she saw with her own eyes. In another life she would have wept, cried at the very memory. She would have banished the images of their deaths from her mind. In this life- if it can be called that- she clings to them. She is no longer the girl she was, but some things will never change. Her mind hungers for knowledge, solid, irrefutable facts, truth. Harry's spent body being set alight by Lucius Malfoy is truth. Ron's mangled corpse hung from the Whomping Willow is fact. Professor Dumbledore killed by the wand of Severus Snape is certainty. Hagrid's soul taken with a Dementor's Kiss, verity.

His presence, so close behind her, is reality, and she thinks that is why she has chosen to forgive him. To trust him. To need him to return. Each evening when he leaves, she misses him, each morning when she wakes she wonders if she will see him. For fifteen days he has not disappointed. Still, when she pours his wine, she does not meet his eyes, does not acknowledge him. When she hears his silken voice, she does not look in his direction. She has learnt her lesson well, and her eyes are trained not to meet those of a Death Eater, those of the Lords. Her shrill, bossy voice has become quiet and husky from lack of use. Her life has wasted away before her eyes.

Until he arrived. Now she is hopeful for the first time since the Final Battle, or the Great Victory is it is now called. But she must be discreet. She could be wrong about him. He could be here for some other purpose, he could have been sent to kill her. He could simply be perusing the host of scantily clad girls in the room, waiting to chose one.

She knows he is not. In fifteen days his eyes have not left her. He is watching her. Perhaps he only thinks he recognises her, and needs to be certain. Perhaps he does not know if she is worth the risk.

She is torn from her internal reverie by the appearance of a Death Eater at her elbow. His is young, only a year or two older than her, and he is eager. She suppresses a sigh. Fighting is futile. She lets him lead her through the room, but they are stopped suddenly as a man steps in front of her would-be client.

It is him.

Her client recognises the older man's power, his position, and leaves her immediately, moving on to the next young "Privilege" that catches his eye. She is left with him. He says nothing, but takes her by the arm and leads her from the room. He motions for her to lead the way- he has not been in this place before. Unsure of his motives, she takes him to the room closest to an exit, and furthest from the reception room. If he means to help her escape, the way out is nearby. If he means to kill her, her screams will not be heard, and his murder will not be interrupted. If he just wants her body, she will give it to him, and this room- deep burgundy with black curtains- is the most expensive of the house.

He closes the door silently behind him, and wards it. She still has not met his eyes. Her hope and her fear are both so strong she feels as if she will explode.

"Miss Granger." His voice does not betray him. Silken and soft as always, so powerful, so sensual. "Look at me." He commands.

She does. He looks better, she thinks, than when she saw him last. His hair is better, his teeth not as yellow, his face not so old. His eyes more haunted, more mysterious, more secretive.

"Do you know why I am here?" He asks. She is silent. Often, she is not expected to answer questions, her voice is not required. "Answer me, girl."

"No." She replies, her voice shaking slightly. "I did not realise I was your type Sir."

She does not know where her sudden bravery has come from. She does not know what her intentions are.

His face darkens, and in a moment he has her pinned against the door, his hands around her too thin wrists.

"Do not play games with me." He warns. "And do not pretend to know what I like."

His words surprise her. His voice is low and dangerous, but almost gentle, for him. His eyes are unfathomable as always, and she wonders if he has ever smiled.

"I am sorry, Sir." She knows she must apologise. His is a customer. She is his privilege. He has a right to her. "I will not pretend to know your motives or your likes Sir."

This is brave. She sees his brow furrow slightly. Still he does not release her. The door is cold and hard on her back. He is warm against her. She is surprised to feel that he is hungry for her.

"You will not find answers to your questions." He tells her cryptically. "I cannot free you."

So he is still a traitor, still betraying the Dark Lord even now when there is no one left to work for instead. He is still the dark figure with the painful past and the bleak future. He is still one of them.

Now, she is not surprised when she finds her hunger matching his.

His is reality. He is here, now, before her. She does not know why. She does not know how he found her, or even if he intended to. But he is pressed against her, he is alive and he is wanting.

For the first time in this house, she feels desire.

"Do not underestimate yourself." She tells him.

He is confused by her statement, but she does not give him time to process it.

"I want you." She tells him, and sees his eyes widen in surprise. She thinks he is probably unused to having a willing companion. She is unused to being willing. This is new for them both, and as he releases her wrists, she knows he has released far more.

She moves to the bed and lies down on it, waiting for him, never taking her eyes from his. She is not a privilege any more, nor a right. She is Hermione.

"I did not come here for this." He tells her, as he watches her, his eyes drinking her in. "I did not want to… No man has the right to take you."

"You are not taking me." She assures him. "I am giving myself to you."

He moves toward her then, slowly unbuttoning his black robes, his eyes full of something she cannot understand.

"Why?"

She will not lie to him. She did not desire him when he was her Professor. She did not harbour a secret passion for her. She does not dream of him, she does not picture him when she lies in the arms of other men.

"You are real." She tells him, and is pleased when he nods. He understands. He feels it too.

In a moment he is on top of her, a position of submission all too familiar. Somehow, he recognises this, and flips her over to that she is the one on top, the one in control. Lowering her mouth to his, she knows she has found an escape.

His lips are warm and inviting. This is her first kiss since Ron, two years ago. This is the first time she has allowed anyone this close. She has known many men in this place, but she has never given herself willingly. Now, she is so hungry, so filled with the need to feel this man, to know him, to touch him, that she does not know how she will last. He is her freedom, and she feels she will cry out her need is so strong.

But he is patient, he is slow. He is savouring every kiss, every hesitant touch. She finds tears in her eyes as he kisses her neck, her collar bone, her breasts. She had believed that tenderness had been defeated in the Final Battle, that there was nothing gentle, or compassionate left in the world.

The last place she expected to find it was here, in this bed, with this man. But he is worshipping her, he is devoting himself to her pleasure. As their desire increases, so too does their tempo. She has tasted him, touched him, and now she wants more, and finally, finally he is in her, and she knows heaven.

After, he is lying next to her, tracing the contours of her face as a husband or boyfriend might. Again, so gentle, so tender, and once more she cries. Soft tears, she has no energy to weep, to sob.

"Did I hurt you?"

His question is such a surprise, so unexpected. Hours ago she would have thought it uncharacteristic. Now she knows better. She shakes her head, and he is relieved.

"Who are you?" She asks quietly, searching his face for an answer. "Why are you here?"

"I am a traitor." He answers, turning onto his back, staring at the ceiling. "I have betrayed you Hermione." It is the first time he has said her name. She wants him to say it again, forever. "You are here, in this place, being used by these warped bastards… I am revered, respected. It is not right, it is unacceptable. You deserve so much… so much more than this."

"So does Hannah. She is the most loyal girl I have ever met. So did Harry, so did Ron, so did Professor Dumbledore. So do you." She tells him. He turns his head to face her. He wipes a tear from her cheek. She loves him then, simply for being here, with her. For understanding, for feeling the injustice.

"If I could get you out, I would. I will try, I promise you, but Lucius watches my every move. They still do not trust me… even now." He sighs. She can tell he is tired of this. This life, this victory he does not want. "Can you forgive me?" He asks, and she knows then that this man suffers more than she does. She has forfeited her body, he has given his heart.

"There is nothing to forgive." She tells him, and kisses him. Her gesture is intimate, and feels wrong in this boudoir. She is treating him as she might the love of her life. Looking at him, with his pale skin, black eyes and strong, roman nose, she wonders if she would have even noticed his goodness were it not for this war. Had she not faced monsters, pleased them, she would not know true bravery, true integrity when she saw it. And she sees it now, in the eyes of the man she once believed to be a traitor, hears it in the voice of a former enemy. "I am sorry."

She does not know why she is apologising. Neither does he, but he does not ask. Despite this closeness, this tenderness, they do not know each other. She is a former student, a past annoyance. He stumbled upon her by accident while searching for a suspected defector. He had been shocked to see her, clad in green and silver lingerie, wine goblet in hand, in this brothel. He had seen hundreds of former students, even former colleagues in similar places, and worse, but she was the one he couldn't leave. She is different, she is precious, and they have used her, stripped her of her dignity. Still she remains beautiful, intelligent… she remains Hermione. She amazes him, depresses him, calls to him, and he cannot believe he is lying next to her.

"If I tried to take you out of here, they would catch us." He feels he needs to explain. "They would kill me- that would be a small price- but Lucius would make sure he got you, if he knew you were with me. It would be a far worse existence than this."

She nods. She understands.

"I'm sorry I cannot free you."

She kisses him again, and when she pulls back, she is smiling.

"You already have, Severus."

He leaves soon after that. She is only permitted to spend an hour with each customer. That afternoon she sleeps with a young blond Death Eater who reminds her of Draco - poor Draco, and an older man who slaps her until she is sore. That night, in her small bed, she hugs herself and dreams of Severus. She sleeps with a smile on her face.

He visits her, when he can. She longs for his visits, but is careful to hide her excitement well. She worries that the guards will notice his favour for her, but he assures her they are too terrified of him to comment. Some days it is enough to see him, to hear him. Other days she is frantic as she tears the clothes from his body, begging him to go faster, harder. Some days she is so sore and fatigued they just lounge on the burgundy bed and talk of Potions and Hogwarts, and even Muggle Literature.

She loves him. He is real.

Two years later, he stops coming. One week without him becomes six, then twenty. She tries to accept he is gone. She tells herself he grew tired of her, he found someone else to satisfy her needs.

Nine months after he stops coming, she is greeted by another familiar face. Lucius Malfoy. As he pounds into her, he describes Severus' face as he was tortured for betrayal. As he comes, he calls her Mudblood. He leaves her naked on the bed, too tired, too distraught to cry.

Severus is dead.

So is she.


End file.
